


Resist

by Zebra (DQueenie13)



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Chapter 10 is set during Poacher's Day, Chapter 9 is an epilogue to DO, Chapters 1-5 are pre-canon, Chapters 6-8 are set during Defender's Oath, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-26 06:35:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20737811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DQueenie13/pseuds/Zebra
Summary: The fallen captain of Feendrache's Black Dragon Knights has but one goal: to set his country right. Even if he must fight his former friends, even if he must throw his country into chaos, even if it will cost him his humanity—hewillsave them.





	1. In Vain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beautify all I know / Keep on dancing  
Let it all turn to gold / When the dream touches ground  
The demons walk in / And I know what awaits
> 
> A priceless glory / Memento mori  
All for nothing now / I know
> 
> (Within Temptation, [In Vain](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q7VnD6Dqx4M))

A ballroom in Feendrache Castle was bathed in golden light as the sun began to dip below the horizon. Noblemen and noblewomen danced together at the center, to a tune he’d heard many times over but never memorized the steps to. As he watched the spectacle from a shadowy corner of the room, Siegfried felt as though there was _something_ he couldn’t quite grasp, something that put him on edge, but he couldn’t pinpoint the origin of this sensation. Perhaps it was because King Josef had retired to his chambers early, leaving Siegfried to keep an eye on the celebration.

Truth be told, he never liked attending these events, but his presence was required as the nation’s hero—the knight who slew Fafnir. It was the anniversary of Fafnir’s sealing, which allowed Sylph to lead Feendrache to prosperity. Luckily for Siegfried, this meant that he got to wear his usual armor and carry his dragonslayer sword instead of getting stuffed into formalwear and having a flimsy, decorative sword at his side. It spared him the hassle of having the noble-born Percival fret over this and that over his outfit, too. The adventure of getting prepared for a ball was a headache for Siegfried and Percival both, and free entertainment for King Josef and Lancelot.

Speaking of Lancelot and Percival, he heard Percival’s agitated voice rise from a throng of noblewomen. “That’s not true at all, and you know it!”

Lancelot, standing next to him, snickered. “That’s _exactly_ what happened, though! Are you trying to save face in front all these pretty ladies? Are you perhaps… _enamored _with one of them?”

As the women in front of them giggled, cheeks red from heavy makeup, Percival flushed a fiery crimson as tiny bits of flame started emerging around him. _Oh boy._ Siegfried pushed himself off the pillar he was leaning against and headed towards the commotion.

“Peeeercival, cool off,” Lancelot groaned exaggeratedly. The ladies giggled again, even as they backed away from the two vice-captains.

“_Don’t _drag my name out like that, Lancelot,” the redhead hissed.

Before Lancelot could retort, Siegfried laid a hand on each of their shoulders, scaring both of his juniors half out of their wits. “Now now,” he soothed as he completely ignored their reactions, “we shouldn’t be fighting at this time of the evening, should we?”  
“N-no, you’re totally right, Sir Siegfried!”  
“Th-that’s… that’s right, Sir Siegfried.”

The ladies giggled yet again—maybe that was the only thing they were capable of. One of them stepped forward from the others. “Sir Siegfried, you looked so valiant during the Fafnir ceremony!”

He smiled to the best of his ability. “Thank you, truly.”

The others, emboldened by their comrade-in-dress, began to pelt him with words of shallow praise. “I don’t think there’s any in Feendrache who can compare to you!”  
“Oh, no? Not even Sir Lancelot or Sir Percival?”  
“Hee hee, I think Sir Siegfried will always be the strongest!”

“Well,” Lancelot interrupted, sensing Siegfried’s unease, “he certainly proved himself during the duels today, did he not? Though I won’t give up on beating him someday!”

Percival snorted. “Keep dreaming, Lancelot. I’ll be the first to beat Siegfried.”  
“Huh? I never said it was a competition, though.”  
“Well, it was… It was implied!”

This time, Siegfried found himself chuckling with the rest of the crowd at their banter. Just then, a woman’s familiar voice cut through the din of the ballroom, calling his name. Consul Isabella’s heels clicked on the floor as she hurriedly approached, squeezing past huddled bodies as a hush settled over the crowd.

“Is something the matter?”

She cast a glance around her before speaking, a bit loudly as to deflect the gaze of curious onlookers. “It’s nothing. The king just wishes to speak to you.”

Slowly, the ballroom returned to its normal clamor. Satisfied, Isabella headed back towards the king’s chambers as the three knights followed. When they were far enough so no prying ears could overhear them, Isabella stopped in her tracks and turned on her heels. Her eyes were downcast and she bit her lip as she struggled for words—a rarity for the smooth-tongued woman.

Lancelot was the first to speak. “Lady Isabella, what’s the matter?”

She cast a wary eye around her and only spoke after ascertaining no one was around to overhear her. “The truth is… it seems the King felt unwell after the toast at the ceremony.”

“Poison…?” Siegfried brought a hand to his chin.

Isabella nodded gravely. “I’ve called for Boris, but I do not know when he will arrive… I’m afraid someone wants to use this occasion to strike at the king and throw the country into chaos.”

“His Majesty should not be left unattended, then,” he replied. “Lancelot, Percival, go back to the ball. We can’t afford to arouse suspicion or let anyone make a move while we’re distracted.”

“I will return with them,” Isabella added. “Sylph is shy, so it’s best that I stay with her. I leave His Majesty to you, Siegfried.”

With their roles set, the four parted ways. The nagging sense that things were going all wrong tugged ever harder at Siegfried’s mind, but he still couldn’t put his finger _where_ it was coming from. He couldn’t help but notice, however, how oddly deserted the hallway was. Servants constantly bustled around the castle during all hours of the day—King Josef had jokingly complained, once, that the greatest disturbance in the castle weren’t the nobles with their idle complaints, but the servants and guardsmen that were active at all hours of the night.

He shook off his unease. His Majesty needed him; he shouldn’t let himself be distracted. As the king’s chambers came into sight, he suddenly felt as if a lead weight had dropped into his stomach.

Flashes of memories—of blood seeping through the gaps of his armor as he cradled Josef’s cold body, the king’s last words before his body became dead weight in his arms—inundated him with every step he took towards his fateful destination.

_No. No, no, no, no, no! Stop! Stop walking!_ _Don’t go in! This is—_

But his legs wouldn’t stop no matter how much he wanted to, and his arms pushed the door open as if he were a marionette being controlled by a puppeteer, moving without his consent.

What awaited him on the other side of the door was not Josef’s limp body, barely clinging to life as a stab wound gushed blood onto the floor. It was…

What _was_ it? A dark mass of some flesh-like substance separated itself from the floor, wriggling and writhing until it extended to full height. Fafnir, or a ghastly imitation of it. It emitted some noise unintelligible to human ears, yet somehow Siegfried understood it perfectly.

_You slew me for fame… This is your retribution!_

Siegfried found himself shouting even though he knew this was all a dream. “It wasn’t for fame! It was for Feendrache! It was for King Josef!” His grip on his sword tightened as he prepared to cut down the creature born from his own mind.

_Isabella… She promised you a place by King Josef’s side if you slew me, did she not? Slay me, and Feendrache will prosper with Sylph’s blessings… You would be endeared by the public and by the king… Your past would be lost among fame and glory…_

“ENOUGH!”

He slashed downwards at the creature with all his might. The second his sword touched the dragon, however, it transformed into the late king’s visage. Unable to stop his own momentum, Siegfried watched helplessly as he cleaved through the king’s shoulder.

Behind him, a woman screamed. Siegfried whirled around, locking eyes with a young maid as she staggered backwards. Her mouth open and closed out of shock and fear, Siegfried equally frozen. In an instant, she dashed into the hallway. “M…murder!! _Murder!!_”

Before Siegfried could decide between chasing her down or figuring out an escape route, the king’s voice called his name, even though he was supposed to be…

_Why… Why did you lie to me?_

Siegfried couldn’t make out Josef’s face, as though it were veiled by some sort of shadow. What he _could_ see, however, was the blood pooling on the floor, oozing from the gaping split in flesh and bone and cloth. The fatal wound he himself had inflicted.

“I didn’t… I…”

_You colluded with Isabella and gave her all she wanted! Endless beauty, endless youth, endless wealth, endless power! The innocent villagers dying to karmide would never have suffered if you’d never slain the dragon!_

“I didn’t know… I didn’t know, I didn’t _know_!” Siegfried backed away from the body, even though he could barely move. “You’re… You’re not King Josef! His Majesty would never have…”

_Isabella would never have, and yet she did! You’re nothing more than a self-serving conspirator!_

“No, that wasn’t it! I…”

“Sieg… Siegfried?” Lancelot’s shaky voice froze him in his spot. He couldn’t turn around. If he did, he’d have to see that look of horror, of crushed dreams and shattered trust, again.

Percival’s voice joined in as he assessed the situation. “King Josef is… A wound like that would have instantly…”

Without turning around, the older knight could feel their swords drawn on him, magic gathering in each their blades in preparation for a fight.

“Siegfried… Why? WHY?!”

“Why…?” Something welled up inside him this time, an anger that hadn’t manifested back then. “Why didn’t you trust _me_?! After all the time we’ve spent together fighting, training, _living_! You immediately cast your doubts on me?!”

_You reap what you sow…_

A wild rage ran through Siegfried, making his vision go white. He gripped his sword and swung it down on that imposter that dared take on Josef’s form, adding another bloody smear to the already-soaked carpet! Shouts and screams surrounded him, some of them from his beloved vice-captains as they drove their own swords into him in a desperate bid to save their already-dead king, and then more swords and lances pierced his flesh, more and more and more and more and more and more and more—

Siegfried’s eyes snapped open as he writhed on the ground in a desperate attempt to shake off the fiery, burning, piercing pain coursing through his whole body. As he regained his bearings on reality, the cold hard reality of his situation was that he was alone. Alone, abandoned, suffering, falsely accused as a murderer and a traitor.

No, that wasn’t correct.

He wasn’t completely alone. The power of Fafnir within him had awoken to his plight, and it ate at him in both body and mind with every passing moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drafted all ten chapters of this fic back in April, but then got stuck in a rut trying to actually flesh it out. My initial intent was to drop all ten chapters at once, but now that Cygames has decided to _finally_ elaborate on his backstory, I decided to post what I have before SIEGFRIED comes out. <s>Because 99% of my headcanons will inevitably be un-canoned</s>


	2. The Reckoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see your face, find peace of mind  
Between the madness and the sadness and the fire burning  
The end of war, the great divine  
We'll see the day of reckoning
> 
> (Within Temptation, [The Reckoning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZGH8R5VwI2k))

Siegfried leaned against a boulder, exhausted from the ordeal of painfully waking from his nightmare. These bouts of burning, stabbing spasms of pain coursing through his body never occurred before that fateful night. Was it perhaps linked to his emotions?

Siegfried tried remembering what exactly his nightmare had been about right before he woke up—his memory of it was hazy, between his pain and the wispy nature of dreams. It had something to do with Lancelot and Percival…

_Ah._

The horrified, betrayed, broken looks on Lancelot and Percival’s faces resurfaced. Despite bringing this on himself, he now desperately tried to forget again, closing his eyes as if that would somehow make the memories fade. Instead, they forced their way further into his mind, their panicked and disbelieving voices hurling questions at him. How could he have done this, why did he kill Josef, was everything a lie…

_In the end, they willingly chose to believe everything was a lie. They could’ve chosen to trust their mentor, but instead…_

“That’s not…” Siegfried’s weak denial sent a jolt of fire through his body and he winced.

_Those two spent almost every moment they could get with you to learn from you, to follow in your footsteps, to **know**_ _you. Yet they trampled all those precious memories underfoot the moment it was more convenient to believe Isabella’s words!_

“They didn’t! They were deceived!” He uttered his rebuttal to thin air as he gritted his teeth against the pain that only intensified.

_Are you sure? They turned on you so easily! Lancelot was accepted into the Order despite his common birth because of you; Percival was suspected of being a spy for Wales, yet you took him under your wing when he couldn’t get along with the other knights. You gave them chance after chance, and they gave you naught in return!_

Tears stung at his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to push those thoughts away, shove them back into the recesses of his mind, they refused to budge. They continued tormenting him, as if waiting for his guard to break and take over his mind.

“Silence, Fafnir! I _know _this is your doing!”

_Is it? Or are you pushing blame onto another, too afraid to face reality?_

Siegfried balled a hand into a fist. It trembled in rage, sadness, pain—_emotion_—for a few seconds before he suddenly drove it into the boulder. A painful crunch could be heard as the reverberation of the impact surged up his arm. As he turned to survey the injury, the rock crumbled before his eyes, fracturing from the point of impact.

For a second, seeing the destruction he’d wrought felt _good_.

In the next, terror set in.

Any normal person who punched a rock would only get a broken, swollen hand. In the moment his hand connected with solid rock, there had been a twinge of pain, but it’d dissipated mere seconds later. Furthermore, the rock had crumbled into pieces. What he’d done was inhuman.

_Monstrous_.

“I… I don’t…”

_Don’t want to become a monster? How much longer are you going to keep dreaming? You’ve **been**_ _a monster._ _Ever since you were drenched in Fafnir’s blood, the dragon’s magic has been infused into you. You are exceptionally compatible with the True Dragon’s blood… Surely you’ve noticed that by now, haven’t you?_

Of course he had. But between the praise and the awe his strength had garnered him, it never felt like a big deal. Naturally, gossiping nobles and jealous soldiers whispered spiteful comments behind his back, but they were also too cowardly to act on their resentment.

_Such is the duality of man, isn’t it? On one hand, they praise your strength; on the other, they fear it. They beseech you to rid them of their foes, hoping your strength will one day fail you so they can set upon you like ravenous beasts. Wasn’t that exactly what Isabella did?_

The fire in his veins, which had died out for a few precious moments, sparked to life again. He fidgeted in discomfort but remained silent. The voice in his head was right; Isabella played him like a fiddle, let him drop his guard, and now he was nothing more than a vagrant who could swing a sword.

He used to joke with Lancelot and Percival that he was content going on solo missions and slaying all the monsters in his path. Lancelot laughed with a “That’s our Siegfried!” while Percival snorted, “That’s _too_ Siegfried. You need to be more responsible!” A faint smile crossed his lips at the memory before a wave of melancholy washed over him.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be by King Josef’s side, protecting the king and the citizens from external threats. With Lancelot, Percival, and the rest of the Black Dragon Knights supporting him, Isabella’s prowess in political affairs, and Sylph’s blessings, Feendrache would grow into prosperous nation, a model for neighboring kingdoms. Maybe they’d even reach skydom fame like the likes of Albion, Lumiel, and Levin.

_I was supposed to be happy!_

Various what-ifs and could-have-beens flooded his mind. He choked back a sob, feeling a lump in his throat as his vision blurred. Tears stained the ground where they fell. He was sure he painted a pathetic picture; not even a week ago, he was beloved and respected as he walked the halls of Feendrache Castle. Now, he was little more than an emotional wreck, a failure knight who could neither protect his liege nor the people he had sworn his life to.

Memories of a young girl’s voice and the soft fluttering of oversized butterfly wings surfaced to his mind. Sylph, the Flutterspirit of Purity. Sylph, the guardian of Feendrache. Sylph, the hope of the people.

It all disgusted him. What did that primal beast hope to accomplish, posturing herself as the dispenser of life incarnate? Everything she gave, she took from others—alma was made from Fafnir’s blood, and the lives she saved with it came at the expense of others.

Sylph was never a savior. She could never be a savior. The only thing she could ever be was a tool to be used by others. Even in legend, she was created to take the place of an Astral’s deceased lover. But she couldn’t be her either, so she was abandoned in the land that would become Feendrache.

_And all it took for people to worship her and model a city after her is the promise of a miracle elixir that cures all disease and restores youth? Even when most of this city’s population, let alone the entire nation, will never even see a drop of it?_

The pain flared up again, though there was a strange satisfaction in the way it responded to the growing anger in his heart. But even that sensation cooled off as he processed his thoughts. If Sylph really was an amoral tool, nor had she done the deed of murdering King Josef, then she wasn’t to blame for the situation.

If anything, _he_ was the root of the problem. If he’d never gone and subdued Fafnir, she would have never been able to use its blood to create alma and rise to power. King Josef would’ve never died. Villagers in the outskirts of their territory wouldn’t be falling ill and dying to karmide poisoning. He “slew” Fafnir, but all it meant was that he inflicted grievous wounds and then used spells to keep it dormant. That was not nearly enough to truly slay a true dragon. All it did was redirect its rage towards him and Feendrache.

Isabella dragged his name in the mud; now he was the Kingslayer, the fallen hero who went mad with power and was a danger to humanity. Remembering his inhuman strength and regenerative abilities, a bitter smirk crossed Siegfried’s lips. Maybe she was _right_. He wasn’t human anymore. His body held power of a being beyond mortal ken. It was probably only a matter of time before he lost control for real.

_What is with this pathetic display? If you want to waste away in the depths of this forest wallowing in self-pity, then turn that sword of yours on yourself and save all of us some time._

Fafnir’s voice—or perhaps his own—resounded in the depths of his mind. It was filled with scorn as if to mock his victory from years past, digging the dagger of regret further into his heart. The voice’s suggestion was truly tempting. The only thing stopping him was the fact he didn’t know if even that would make a difference. His body was inhuman now; if he could heal back from the literal jaws of death, what good would a sword do?

_Siegfried…_

King Josef’s voice was so clear, for a second Siegfried thought this whole event had been a terrible dream. He looked about, hoping to see Josef’s fatherly smile again. But all he saw were trees and crumbled rock, and his short-lived hope sank once more.

The disgraced knight chuckled derisively. If he wasn’t a madman before Isabella’s accusation, he certainly was one now. Hallucinating the voice of his liege and clinging to a delusional hope that he was alive, when he was the one who failed him? What did he hope to achieve, failure that he was, with such lofty dreams such as revenge and redemption?

_Siegfried!_ _Save Feendrache…_

King Josef’s last words echoed in his mind, and suddenly everything fell silent.

In the end, that was all that mattered, right? What was done was done; no amount of self-loathing would undo time. Staring down at his armor, still covered in Josef’s blood, Siegfried’s thoughts some how grew clear. Revenge? Redemption? Neither of those things were relevant. As long as Isabella was alive, people would suffer. He once thought that Josef could keep her in check; surely no one would risk raising the people’s ire by endangering the king’s life. Now he knew how foolish his optimistic dreams were. But that no longer mattered either.

If he was a traitor and a murderer, so be it. If Isabella wanted him to be one so badly, he’d just have to give her what she wanted. His mind drifted back to words he’d heard the first time he encountered Josef: _Don't worry! Your reputation's already as low as it can get!_

Siegfried remembered his last meeting with Kriemhild and Gunther in that bloodied house in Burgundy. He couldn’t follow Gunther that day, as he carried the limp bodies of his wife and son out of the house. He couldn’t save them from the ravages of war. He couldn’t save Josef from Isabella’s lust for power.

Josef’s words from years past resurfaced in his mind: _“From where I'm standing, it appears you keep your distance not to prevent yourself from hurting others, but to prevent yourself from being hurt. Why do you go to such lengths to avoid getting close to others?”_

“Well, Your Majesty,” Siegfried chuckled ruefully, “if you’re watching me from above, maybe now you know why.”


	3. Endless War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the memories remain of the pain from your broken home  
And the walls that your heart grew so strong  
You can't let go  
  
You keep crawling on / Won't let it go  
You keep holding on / To feel whole
> 
> (Within Temptation, [Endless War](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=SLKaqMLct-0))

Lancelot was now captain of the new Order of the White Dragons, while Percival headed off for lands unknown, not even bothering to visit his homeland of Wales to bid his eldest brother goodbye. _Percival… you’ve decided to follow your own path, haven’t you?_

With a wistful smile, Siegfried surveyed the intel on the former Black Dragon knights compiled by one of his trustworthy contacts. He looked back up at his informant, an unassuming Erune man around his own age donning a worn, weather-aged cloak. His strawberry-blonde hair was slightly combed but retained some messiness. “Fergus. What about the Ruforth villagers?”

“One of our agents persuaded Isabella and her cronies to imprison them secretly. For now, they’ll be safe.” Seeing a glint in Siegfried’s eye, he sternly warned, “Don’t even think about trying to free them right now. The Barkeep took great pains in getting you to a city where you’re safe from Feendrache eyes. Settle down for a while and live a quiet life.”

“I _can’t_, Fergus. I… I’m…”

“Listen, Siegfried. I _know_ what you’re thinking: ‘All I can do is fight’ and ‘I need to avenge the king as soon as possible.’ But you can’t do that just yet, trust me.”

Siegfried emitted something of a low growl as he shifted uncomfortably. Letting Isabella run loose made him antsy, and truth be told, while he had been arranged into rather comfortable living conditions for a fugitive, he wasn’t keen on associating with _them_. Every nation had its underbelly that people swept under the rug and ignored. It was the dirty, lowborn part of Feendrache society that believed in his innocence—or at least recognized he was a scapegoat for Isabella’s schemes. The anti-Isabella faction used their underground connections to land Siegfried in the safety of Dalmore. Even if she found out, she would have a difficult time persuading Dalmore or its ally, Wales, to arrest him. The two kingdoms, which had always trailed behind Feendrache, were eager to strengthen themselves in the wake of its internal troubles.

Fergus watched Siegfried, pondering something as he leaned back in his chair. “You know,” he piped up as he leaned forward, “no one would blame you if you laid low and retired from this whole life. You’ve done enough. The country shouldn’t depend on you to carry them through every problem.”

“I told you already, I can’t. King Josef asked me to set the country right, and I intend on honoring that.”

“And how? Killing Isabella? That won’t upend the corruption in Feendrache’s aristocracy. Barkeep knows this. We know this. _You_ know this.”

This “Barkeep” was a distant cousin of his, though they had few interactions with each other. Siegfried was raised in the harsh wilderness outside of Feendrache; she was raised in the slums of the capital. He became a knight through his combat prowess and a chance meeting with King Josef; she became a leader of the underground through her charm, wits, and cutthroat pragmatism. Claiming to seek justice against nobles who wronged the common people, she gained loyal allies from the baseborn, the downtrodden, and the outcast. She fashioned Isabella as her archnemesis and spared no effort in disrupting the consul’s plans. In the past, Siegfried stopped a few of her schemes from going too far; now, his very life was one of her gambits. He wasn’t happy about it, but he couldn’t complain when the alternatives to his situation were much worse.

Shifting the topic, Siegfried remarked on his ex-vice captains. “How is Lancelot doing? He’s a bit disorganized for captain’s work, isn’t he?” Lancelot and Percival shared a room as vice-captains, and the contrast between their sides was like night and day. Several times, Siegfried walked in on the two bickering just in time to watch Percival irately kick Lancelot’s mess back into his half of the room.

Fergus sighed, taking a swig from his beer mug. “He’s a boy, Siegfried. Naïve, innocent… You wouldn’t be able to get through to him. You can’t. You really can’t.”

Even though he expected this reply, Siegfried’s heart sank as another tiny glimmer of hope in himself die again. “Sounds like you’ve tried.”

“One of our agents suggested Isabella was lying and staged you. Nearly got frozen to death in a fit of rage for his troubles.”

“Sorry.” He felt compelled to apologize for his former protégé’s wrath.

“Don’t be. But this is what I mean. He can’t handle the truth no matter how clear it might be. He can’t accept the idea of having his faith shattered twice. Not now, at least.”

_Thinking about it, that boy Vane he always confided in. Didn’t the intel say he was dispatched to the southern border as a common soldier? That must’ve been deliberate._

A waitress brushed against their table as she passed, leaving behind a tiny scrap of blank paper. Fergus immediately brushed it to the floor. “Looks like my time here’s up—I’m getting called back to Feendrache. Without you to temper Isabella’s plans, we need all hands on deck to put up a resistance. Anything you want us to investigate while I’m back?”

“Find out if Isabella tries to hide anything and see if she’s making any shady deals. There’s no way King Carl or Lancelot would ever suspect her of wrongdoing, so she’ll be free to do whatever she pleases.”

“And if we find anything, what do you want us to do with that information?”

Siegfried shrugged. “I’ll leave that to Robin’s discretion. And send her my regards.”

Fergus’ brows, which had been scrunched in thought, relaxed as he gave a slight chuckle. “You know, I always forget she has a name.”

“It’s a fake name anyways.”

“Ha! Secrecy is everything for those who live in the shadows. Oh, and one last thing,” Fergus stopped as he approached the staircase. “Make sure to follow up on the whole Florence deal, eh?”

With that, Fergus descended the staircase, threw his hood over his head, and slipped into the crowd. Left alone in an unfamiliar city, Siegfried decided to take the opportunity to sleep while he still had a room in the inn.

Without his permission, his brain decided sleep was overrated. As moonlight shone into his room, Siegfried was caught between an exhausted body and overactive mind. The report on Lancelot disturbed him. Sure, he was prone to emotional outbursts every so often if someone pushed him enough, but it was unlike him to have such explosive rage. Not only that, he nearly killed someone just for mentioning the _possibility_ that he was being deceived.

_“He can’t accept the idea of having his faith shattered twice.”_

If Percival were around, he’d probably get Lancelot back to his senses with a snide remark about how he’s letting his emotions get the better of him (as if Percival weren’t the same way himself). But even Percival believed Isabella’s trickery. The only ones who believed him innocent were those who already despised Isabella and would’ve written off anything she did as deceit. Regret washed over him. Maybe he should have tried to defend his innocence there, on that rainy night. Maybe he could’ve convinced them that he was set up. There were a lot of things he could have done and maybe should have done, but it was all wishful thinking at this point. A sudden jolt of pain surged from his head to the tip of his toes and he writhed in agony.

_Not again! Stop! Stop hurting!_

It only intensified even further until he was gasping for breath. Desperately, he tried remembering what he’d done to keep Fafnir’s blood in check. All he could remember was hearing Josef’s last words but recalling them now only made the fire burn hotter. Then he remembered it flared up whenever his emotions went unchecked, and he tried to focus on something to calm himself down.

_Kill Isabella. Destroy her and her influence over Feendrache. Nothing else matters._

As he thought these words, the fire doused itself. Siegfried grit his teeth. What Lancelot thought of him, what Percival thought of him… Those were useless, idle thoughts. They’d never believe him innocent if he just sat around wringing his hands in self-pity, and Isabella’s power would grow unchecked. At this point, what difference did people’s opinions make? With her glib tongue, Isabella could make the people of Feendrache sing her praises all day long. They lived their lives in ignorant bliss, unaware that the wooden stage on which they danced was rotting underneath their feet. People’s hearts were unreliable, easily swayed by evidence that conveniently benefit their pre-existing views of the world. With few allies to depend on, he’d have to rely on himself if he wanted to cut away the blight that afflicted his country.

It was farcical. All these years King Josef had spent teaching him courtesy, knightlihood, and what it meant to live among people, only for them to be thrown away because of his murder. Luckily, his survival skills hadn’t been whittled away by the domestication of civilization. Hagen and some other knights had denounced him as “beastly” and “barbaric,” but it was exactly because he never shied away from that lifestyle that he could live this long. It hadn’t failed him before, and it wouldn’t fail now.

Suppressing thoughts that may cause his dragon blood to flare up again, Siegfried once again tried to get some sleep. He had an important meeting in the morning, and he couldn’t be picky or choosy about any potential aid he could get.

For a court sorceress, Florence was surprisingly young—but then again, she was probably around his age and he had been the knight captain. Her golden tresses curled around her face as she curtsied. He returned the gesture with a small bow.

“For a madman, you look quite composed.” While her features were delicate, her words had the sharpness of a well-maintained blade.

“Outward appearances can be deceiving,” he replied, thinking back on Hagen. “You’d best be careful.”

A confident smile crossed her lips. “I dealt with Gawain on my own. Perhaps _you_ had best be careful.”

Siegfried heard rumors that Dalmore’s unbeatable Gawain was mysteriously defeated within the country’s territory and, for reasons unknown to even rumors, left on a self-imposed exile. If what she said was true, she was a force to be reckoned with indeed. However, Gawain’s prowess was exceptional because Dalmore’s military strength was lacking. “His exile puts the country in a delicate position, doesn’t it?”

“Dalmore would have been torn apart either way. I simply chose the path of least bloodshed,” she smiled ruefully. “Besides, this very matter is why I agreed to meet with the so-called Kingslayer of Feendrache.”

The fire in his veins lit up again and he fidgeted in discomfort. Discerning this change in behavior, she quickly added, “Do not worry. Nobody who’s thinking clearly about this believes you’re responsible. We have long had our eyes on Consul General Isabella.”

“So Dalmore’s trying to protect itself from her. Wouldn’t meeting me, the most wanted man in Feendrache, backfire on you if we’re discovered?”

“Well, this meeting between us never happened, if you get my drift.” She took a sip from her teacup. “Even if she found out, she can’t pick a fight with us without leaving herself open to an attack from Wales. After its restructuring, the Order of the White Dragons is much weaker than it was as the Black Dragons; it would not be able to wage war against Dalmore and protect Feendrache at the same time.”

Siegfried narrowed his eyes. “I take it Feendrache and Wales’ trade agreement is no longer on the table?”

“You didn’t know?” He didn’t like where she was going with this. “Shortly after King Carl’s coronation, Isabella declared Feendrache had to protect its own interests after King Josef’s death, and could not afford to maintain an agreement with Wales.”

Upon hearing this, Siegfried sucked in air through his teeth and shook his head. Florence gave him a sympathetic, weary smile. For generations, Feendrache and Wales had an uneasy, unspoken peace agreement, but the new Lord Aglovale had agreed to negotiations for a trade agreement. Undeniably, it may have been for appearance’s sake since Percival was a member of the Order. Be that as it may, Isabella’s words were a polite way of giving Wales the finger. In one swift move, she’d thrown away months of negotiations and goodwill gestures. Worse, she snubbed Wales by implying that Feendrache only stood to lose from a trade agreement. Judging by their few interactions, the young ruler was not going to take this affront to his pride lying down. Siegfried filed away this information in his mind as something to keep an eye out for once Isabella was dealt with.

“Back to our original discussion… Frankly, my contacts set up this meeting,” Siegfried admitted. “I don’t have much to talk about.”

“My primary purpose was to ascertain that my suspicions about King Josef’s death were correct. Seeing you in the flesh has confirmed them. Unfortunately, there is little I can do about Feendrache’s internal affairs.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to get involved anyways. It’s something the country needs to sort out on its own.”

“That said, there _is_ something I believe you can help us with, which will benefit you as well.” Her eyes locked with his. “With King Carl as a puppet on the throne and a naïve boy to do her bidding as knight captain, Isabella will undoubtedly start encroaching on neighboring kingdoms. If we can prevent her from gathering intel on us, it will hamper her attempts to gain a foothold within other nations.”

“You want me to stay here and root out her spies.”

“I can prepare living arrangements for you. For the time being, it’s too dangerous for you to stay in Feendrache.”

“Says you.” At her bewildered expression, Siegfried smirked. “I’ve lived in the wilderness long enough to know how to avoid any soldiers or mercenaries that might try to hunt me down.”

Florence tapped her cheek in thought. “Even if you return to Feendrache, there’s nothing you can do about Isabella right now. Wait for Feendrache’s situation to stabilize first. Without her, the kingdom will fall apart.”

“Heh. Isn’t that a good thing for you?”

To his surprise, she frowned. “Frankly speaking, Dalmore lacks the resources to support any refugees that may come to the country seeking aid should Feendrache dissolve. Wales has not forgotten Lady Herzeloyde’s death at the hands of refugees; I cannot imagine anything good coming out of Feendrache’s downfall.”

“I can’t imagine Isabella staying in power is much better.”

“Having someone who can at least provide some form of leadership is better than anarchy.” She sighed. “I’m not ignoring Isabella’s threat. Gawain was a tyrant, as much as it pains me to admit, and I don’t know how long it will take for the people of Dalmore to forgive him—if they ever do. However, for Isabella to maintain her position, she needs to maintain her public image.”

“Go on.”

“Isabella is clever, so she knows she has to be cautious about her personal involvement in her plans. If she leaves any trail that leads back to her, her efforts will be for naught. King Carl and Sir Lancelot hold large influence but are not within her inner circle; if they are given reason to distrust her, they may turn on her at any point.”

Siegfried put a hand to his chin. _So while Isabella’s playing it safe, find incriminating evidence on her and expose her true colors._ With a small smirk on his lips, he pushed himself away from the table. “Well, thank you for the talk, Miss Florence. I have some _matters_ to attend to.”

“You won’t need Dalmore’s aid?”

“With all due respect, didn’t you say it yourself? There’s nothing you can do about Feendrache’s own problems. Besides, once I leave, we’ve never met anyways. Like Isabella, I can’t leave behind a trail. I can’t involve Dalmore in my own issues.”

Seeing his mind was set, Florence rose from her chair and gave him a small curtsy. He returned with a bow, picked up his sword, and left without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly I am posting this roughly 4 hours before The Savior of Dalmore drops just in case the event obliterates my headcanon/way of writing Florence. I wrote it to add context to Siegfried's "I don't know how much weight my name carries" line when he travels to Dalmore for negotiations in Between Frost and Flame.


End file.
